To Be Young Poem by Anisa Tara

The clocks of ticking aspirations tock
While sounding bells of expiration toll
A symphony without a crescendo
Exemplified by the sighs of the old

The young may shelter their naïve opinions
In regretful mumbles it is uttered
Nightly incantations that never end
Precocious dreams untouched in the gutter

Songs of hope were once our sounding anthems
But life ebbs desire down into its drains
My thirty mark is still a mile away
Show me how I might hope for things again

I suspect I was cut from old garments
Not cloth made for a girl of twenty-five
I would implore my tailor for scissors
End the suffering of a quarter life